


When there's no time for joking (there's a hole in the plan)

by spirograph



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-01
Updated: 2006-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re Sam and Mark, trademark, because they come as a package and it’s hard for Sam to imagine them being anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When there's no time for joking (there's a hole in the plan)

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during the filming of TMi. I'm just assuming sam would stay at their flat-thing. Derek is a blowup doll.

Sam doesn’t really understand how deep it is until they’re finally on a holiday from filming. Mark goes home to visit his family in Wolverhampton for a week and suddenly Sam is absolutely, painfully alone. It’s the longest they’ve been separated in years and lost doesn’t even begin to cover how Sam feels. He cooks too much the first night - enough for two overeaters, with some to spare – then sits on the couch and watches Coronation Street for the whole night, shoveling forkful after forkful of pasta into his mouth, pointedly not staring at the phone. He falls asleep on the couch and wakes up in the AM to the sound of infomercials burbling at him from the corner of the room. 

For a moment, when he stumbles into the bedroom, he sees the outline of a body in Mark’s bed and forgets. It doesn’t take him long to shake off the drowsy confusion and remember that Mark stuck a Derek in his bed before he left so Sam ‘had somebody to talk to.’ Sam pulls back the covers anyway, just to make sure, hating that he feels so fucking disappointed when all he reveals is shiny plastic and a painted-on, wide-eyed smile. “This sucks,” he whispers sadly, thankful that all of the cameras have been shut down for the week. Derek stays infuriatingly silent. 

On the second day he regrets buying his parents tickets to go on a vacation of their own. He’d have liked to go back to Barnsley and forget the bustle of the city for a bit, take the battery out of his phone like he couldn’t care less who called and dig in to a plate of his mum’s home cooking. He tidies the flat instead, which seems kind of pointless considering they had a cleaning crew through only a day before the break. It uses up some time though, and by midday every polishable surface in sight is glaring violently at him under the bright lights. 

The flat is excruciatingly boring without Mark around, although he’d never tell _him_ that. Sam sits on the couch and wonders how he’s managed to become so goddamn reliant on Mark Rhodes because, for sure, if he were around he’d be sitting on Sam’s chest by now, trying to stick his finger or some kind of vegetable matter up his nostril, or at the very least he’d be tickling him mercilessly until tears of laughter streamed down his face. Sam smiles and tries to pretend like his mind hasn’t rewound and paused on the part where Mark’s straddling his thighs, looking down at him, hands sliding up over his t-shirted chest. Sam sits up, looking around the room desperately for something else to clean. Something, anything. Any kind of distraction from the things he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about in relation to Mark bloody Rhodes. When Fearne calls an hour later to invite him out for a drink he almost cries with relief. 

The phone rings close to midnight on the third day, hushed voice traveling down the line, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“I wasn’t sleeping.” It’s almost the truth. “How’re the Midlands?” Sam shifts onto his back, staring up at the whitewash expanse of his ceiling. 

There’s silence, then, “It’s…” A heartbeat. “Quiet.” 

Sam wants to laugh but the sound won’t come out. His stomach knots and his chest gets kind of tight; he wants desperately to beg Mark to come home, which, well. He tries to tell himself that’s how everybody feels when their best friend leaves town. He honestly doesn’t know who he’s trying to fool anymore. “So uh, how’s London?” 

_Lonely_ , Sam doesn’t say. He can hear the rustle of sheets, the huff of Mark’s breath as he tries to get comfortable. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine Mark’s an arms length away in the next bed. “Sunny-ish.” He puts his free arm behind his head, “Weather’s ‘bout to pack in though.” And he feels sort of ridiculous, as if Mark really gives a crap about the weather. 

Mark just ‘mmm’s softly into the receiver. He sounds so far off, like he’s a million miles away. _Completely out of reach_. “S’pose its good I bought you that brolly th’other week.” 

The image of a hot pink umbrella with rainbows and clouds on it springs into Sam’s mind. He smiles and feels himself sinking heavily into the mattress, “yeah, it’s a goodun.” It’s the most relaxed he’s been in two whole days. It feels like it’s been forever. 

He wakes up after 10am the next day with dial tone echoing dully against his ear, legs tangled in the sheets and the telly blaring loudly in the next room. He wonders when exactly they fell asleep, if he was snoring down the phone line and that’s why Mark hung up. It’s kind of funny, he thinks, and stretches his arms up over his head. 

The phone rings again at 6pm, Sam knows because the news has just begun and like clockwork his stomach starts to protest. “Shouldn’t you be hanging out with your family?”

“I miss you, kind of. I guess,” Mark replies, mock-casual, voice wavering like he regrets even thinking it. 

Sam wiggles his toes against the bright purple mink comforter spread out over his legs, “I don’t miss you at all, you filthy slob.” He grins at the laughter that explodes at the other end. “If you were a household cleaning product, you’d be a useless, crusty dried up sponge, you would.” 

“You’re a right prick.” It’s the most adoringly spoken insult Sam’s ever heard. They sigh simultaneously, easing back into silence. 

Sam listens to the sound of Mark breathing. Inhale. Exhale. In and out, until the pattern is interrupted by a soft, almost-moan. Sam swallows, possibly a little harder than is warranted, “What was that?” 

“Sorry, stretching.” And they’re silent again. Sam can hear the sound of voices at the other end, progressively getting louder. “I have to go,” Mark groans, followed soon after by a familiar, high-pitched female voice in the background yelling, “Is that Sam? Hello Sam!” 

“Tell her I say hi,” which Mark does, and Sam listens to their idle back and forth for a bit, smiling through his panic, scolding himself because the thought of Mark hanging up makes him feel so damn nauseous. Mark says goodbye though, eventually, and the line goes dead. Sam feels disoriented, staring at the television set but hearing nothing the presenter says. His stomach grumbles again and he remembers the steak he’d picked up down at the grocers. There’s practically an entire encyclopedia of recipes in his head to choose from, so he picks the one that takes the longest, using the waiting time between steps to retrieve a Derek from the cupboard and sit him up at the table. “This is pretty good,” he says when it’s all done. Derek just stares at him, mouth contorted into a perfect “O” 

Sam tells himself that he’s lonely now because he’s so used to the people with cameras hanging around, accustomed to their crazy guest visitors always knocking on the door, but when he really thinks about it he doesn’t miss any of that at all. Staring at the wall and not at all close to sleeping he admits to himself that he’s just missing the sound of Mark _breathing_. Knowing that he can reach out, physically or verbally, and he’ll be an arms length away and ready to listen to whatever Sam has to say, however pointless it may be. _I’ll get by with a little help with my friends,_ he sings under his breath, against his pillow, and it sounds pathetic and empty without Mark backing him up. He turns over onto his other side and considers taking his frustration out on Derek’s face. Instead, he rolls out of his own bed and crawls into Marks, pushing Derek onto the floor and burying himself down as far as he can go inside the blankets. 

It’s not like Sam hasn’t thought about taking things further before; he’s imagined Mark’s hands and his loud, joke-ruining mouth on his skin. He’s caught himself mid-sentence, staring at Mark’s face in a way he thinks could give it away, like his eyes might betray him, blinking out the words _I want you so badly, god, god, why can’t I have you?_ He’d successfully ignored it all until his mother suggested he find a nice girl to date. He’d snapped himself wanting to tell her that he was happy with Mark for the time being, but every time he tried to say it, the way it sounded in his head just wasn’t right. Finally he decided there was no right way to say it, because he’d pretty much been lying to himself right from the start. He thinks about that a lot, a veritable montage of memories made up of touch and laughter and always being together flooding his mind. 

They’re best friends because together they’re just the right amount of smart that it’s impressive, stupid and silly enough that it’s endearing. They’re Sam and Mark, trademark, because they come as a package and it’s hard for Sam to imagine them being anything else. The thought of being anything other makes him feel physically ill. He wonders if Mark feels it too, if he sees it on Sam’s face when they’re made to split up for whatever reason, even when it’s only a few hours, the hesitation and the underlying dread. _What if they don’t let me come back,_ he always thinks, and maybe he’s finally pinpointed his greatest fear. Which is possibly why he’s never acted on his feelings, why when Mark’s been _right there_ , mere inches away from his face and getting closer, hot breath ghosting over his skin and making his heart rate double, triple, go off the scale, he hasn’t bothered to grab onto his face and pull him in the rest of the way. He really doesn’t want to fuck everything up. Especially not on camera. 

Day five of the longest week of Sam’s _life_ goes a little bit faster than the others, but only because he knows there are only two days left. Caroline drops by with a batch of seriously over baked cookies that Sam practically inhales. “Shouldn’t you save some for Mark?” she says, and Sam scrunches up his nose at her, tilting his head to the side ‘cause that’s just crazy talk, before standing up and dusting the last of the crumbs off his jeans and onto the floor, flopping back down onto the couch with a satisfied burp. 

Sam’s midway through having a shower on day six when the bathroom door bangs open. It’s probably not as surprising as it should be - it’s happened before. Only it’s usually somebody with a bucket of something vile to throw on him. No, not this time; he sees through the steamed-up glass that it’s only Mark, and for somebody who’s just had most of the week off work he looks remarkably shattered. He doesn’t say anything though, just walks up to the stall and opens the door. Sam waits for it, but the prank he’s expecting never unfolds. Mark steps over the lip of the door and right into Sam’s personal space.

“You’ve got your clothes on,” Sam manages to force out, not _you’re home early_ or _I’m naked and you’re in the shower with me._

Mark says, “Oh” and puts his hand on Sam’s hip then, awkwardly, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” He looks genuinely terrified.

Sam says, “Okay.” And mirrors Mark’s actions, hand on his hip, fingers flexing involuntarily against his saturated shirt. Sam thinks, _Matching tattoos and matching rings_ , their breath falling into a stutteringly identical rhythm with absolutely no rhythm at all. 

Mark leans in and kisses him.


End file.
